Two Points for Honesty
by sbgrrl
Summary: Gen. Episode tag for 4.12. Dean Winchester always knew that the truth hurt. He wasn't prepared for how much. In fact, it seemed Dean wasn't prepared for much of anything.


_A/N: Tag to 4.12. I know what you're thinking: can Sbgrrl ever write something not filled with angst? Answer: I try. I really do! But no. Tee hee. Song title comes from a Guster song. I know this will get Kripked in short order, but **I so want Dean to be smart enough to not believe Sam** that I had to write this. _

**Two Points for Honesty**

It was the way Sam looked as if Jay's loss was his own and the way he choked on his words that made Dean follow his brother out of the bar. It was remembering how Sam had made a what-if entreaty about a way to win this war so they could end their lives as happy old men with wives, children, grandchildren, sunshine and roses, instead of bloody, sad or bloody _and_ sad. It was an overriding feeling that very little of what Sam did or said anymore could be taken at face value. A walk wasn't a walk, a promise might be little more than meaningless words strung together.

So far, he was sure Sam had held steadfast in his vow not to voluntarily use his psychic whatever-it-was. And Dean wanted to keep that implicit trust in his brother, but somewhere along the way Sam had sharpened his teeth on lies. No surprise, since they'd lied their way through life. If Dean were going to be brutally honest himself, he had known this was how it would go the second Sam started hinting about a possible way to cut the head off the snake. He didn't want it to be true, to be tailing his own brother as if he were a monster to hunt, because that meant deep down he already thought that. He had thought that for months. It was a cold spot in his gut, growing and growing.

In some ways, seeing Sam make these choices was just as bad as anything he'd experienced himself. Dean knew things now. He understood what it did to a person to embrace evil. The only thing that had saved him from it, literally pulled him out from the grips of darkness, was beings that weren't interested in pulling Sam free from anything. They wouldn't hesitate to _kill_ Sam for walking a dark path similar to the one he'd been on. The difference between him and Sam was that his brother thought he was doing the right thing. Dean had known he wasn't and hadn't cared.

A block in front of him, Sam stopped walking and looked around. It was hard not to read furtiveness in the action, assign a guilty conscience. Dean ducked into a doorway before his brother swung around to look in his direction. The only reason he even cared if Sam saw him was that Dean didn't know what he'd do if he did. He wasn't ready for that fight. He wasn't ready, really, for Sam to be doing what Dean knew he was doing. God help him, he wasn't ready to lose the hope that Sam really was just going for a stroll. After a second of watchfulness, Sam relaxed and continued loping along the dark sidewalk before turning suddenly into an alley.

Dean jogged cautiously forward, plastering himself up against a brick wall and into shadows that threatened to swallow him up the second he saw Sam climb into the car with Ruby. It shouldn't have taken him by surprise. After all, he'd expected it. Yet a twist of betrayal and horror in his gut nearly doubled him over. More awful than that, he still didn't want to believe it even as he watched it play out before his eyes. His mind raced to think of ways to explain how Sam jumping into a car with a demon could be innocuous. That was how big an idiot he was, so desperate to exonerate his obviously guilty brother he'd make things up to ease his mind. He wanted to be angry with Sam, then, as the car sped off.

But all he felt was fear and _damnit, Sam, no_.

The Impala was too far away for him to get to it and still be able to tail Sam and Ruby. Dean wasn't entirely sure that was the best idea anyway. He didn't want to know what it was Sam thought he could do to become some fucking magic bullet and end this war; it couldn't be good. Never mind that they'd already tried using a magic bullet once, and the Big Bad Wolf had died exactly like he was supposed to. Only it turned out Little Red Riding Hood was the one they should really have been afraid of. Sam should know that there was always something worse in the wake of something pretty damn bad.

The not truly knowing what Sam was actually doing was the only thing keeping Dean safe from decision-making, but he knew if he kept not knowing the decision would be left to others who would not have such a difficult time of it. Inaction in and of itself was a coward's choice. He hunched slightly at the waist, wishing he could expel the sick sensation in his gut as if it were a physical thing. He took a few minutes of just breathing and not thinking about the rush he'd felt when he stripped souls in Hell and not thinking about Sam or Ruby or Castiel or God.

Then he straightened and headed back to the bar for something stronger than beer.

The bartender gave him a bright smile when he pulled up a stool. A year ago, Dean would have turned on the charm and had a good time with her after last call. An hour ago, he might have pretended he was the same guy and gone through the motions. Now, he gave her a grim smile, a request for whiskey and nothing more.

"Rough night?" she asked, sliding a glass in front of him. Her expression turned completive, the practiced armchair psychology of a good bartender. "You look like you just lost your best friend."

"Yeah, I suppose you could say that," Dean said, his throat tight. "It might be exactly what happened."

"There seems to be a lot of that going around."

Dean tossed back his drink, felt the burn of it down the back of his throat and the heat spread to his stomach, his limbs. He tapped the bar for a refill before the bartender could wander away. He watched the liquor flow from the bottle and swirl around in the glass. When she finished pouring, he suddenly had no desire to drink it. He stared at the amber liquid, tapped the glass to make it ripple. Whiskey wouldn't help. It hadn't yet. He closed his eyes, imagining Sam with his hand raised and his face contorted into a horrible mask of pain and power. He pictured Sam tearing people apart without using a blade or gun or his hands. In the back of his mind a seed of something terrible cultivated, the irrational idea the something worse that would follow Lilith could be Sam almost as easily as Lucifer.

Sam, who had no idea good intentions were an illusion that could not stop evil once it had a firm hold, could not erase that evil once done.

With jerky motions Dean withdrew a twenty from his wallet, tossed it on the bar top and stalked out of there. The air was too stifling inside and his bleak thoughts would only make him provoke someone into a fight so he could release the awful, torn feeling of _damnit, Sam, no_ inside him.

He drove aimlessly at first, not wanting to be in the room alone. After half an hour, Dean realized he was looking for Sam on the streets like he was a needle in a haystack and drove to the motel. Sam wasn't there, either. It was only when Dean faced the empty room that he knew he had been holding out more crazy hope Sam had just gone for a freaky (wrong) booty call with Ruby, and he'd be there waiting. He didn't consider him wanting Sam to be there a delusion, just outright desperation.

Shrugging out of his jacket, Dean tossed it onto the small dining table and headed for the bathroom. He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face. He had to pull himself together. He scrubbed dry with the rough motel hand towel, giving his reflection a sidelong glance as he left the room. For the first time that night he wasn't surprised by what he saw. He looked like a seventy-year-old man trapped in a thirty-year-old body. His eyes were pain and heartache.

Dean sat on the end of his bed, leaning his elbows on his knees, propping his head between his hands. He needed to think about what to do with the knowledge he had about Sam. He didn't know what to do, but he would give his brother two points for honesty. He'd give a million for Sam to simply not be doing something with his demonic powers. He closed his eyes. He was too damned tired and damaged for this. Because as wrong as Sam was about this, he also wasn't wrong. Dean didn't know how to tell his brother to stop doing something that might be the only thing that could save the world, but kill him. Kill them both.

"Do you know where your brother is, Dean?"

Jumping to his feet, Dean looked wildly around the room. Castiel stared at him from the door, expression somehow placid and kindhearted at the same time. Dean had a compulsion to hit the guy, but that would be disrespectful. Couldn't have that. And as good as punching the guy's lights out would feel, it wasn't Castiel's fault.

"Jesus, you could knock for once," he said.

Castiel's eyes narrowed, his chapped lips pursed for a second. He repeated, "Do you know where Sam is?"

"Like, do I have a street address?" Dean ran a hand through his hair, looking to Castiel as if he'd give him all the answers, and that he'd like them for a change. "No. But, yeah. I know."

"He cannot be allowed to –"

Dean stalked across the room, getting in Castiel's face. The angel backed away from him, his elbow thunking into the door. It was not intimidation or fear, just reaction. More than he'd ever gotten out of Castiel before.

"I know," Dean shouted, voice cracking. "I know, all right? We've been over this."

The anger was quick and hot in Dean's veins, and he didn't even know where it had come from. But, yes, he did. He knew what a big deal this was, Sam consciously choosing to do this. He didn't need God's freaking minion down here on his case about it. Sam had used his powers before to stop Samhain, to try to stop Alastair, and where had the sanctimonious angel been then? Conflicted and sad on a park bench, just like him.

"Spare me the lecture. I know what he's doing. I don't remember you objecting too much when he sent Samhain back to Hell where he belongs. You guys are real fickle." Dean backed off, anger fading as suddenly as it had come. He was so damned tired. He gave Castiel a weak smile. "What I want to know is why you don't smite Sam if you think he's so damned dangerous."

Castiel tilted his head to the side just a little as he studied Dean. It was as unnerving as always, like Castiel wasn't looking at him but through him. Like he could see beyond the young shell to the old man beneath, and into what was left of Dean's soul. The gaze remained almost blank, but it was also soft and understanding and Dean couldn't take it. He moved away and sat on the bed again, teetering on the edge. He examined the carpet, annoyed when hot tears blurred his vision.

"We take no action because the decision is not ours to make, Dean," Castiel said, quietly as if talking to a confused, wounded animal that would pounce on anyone who came near. "It never has been."

_Damnit, Sam, no_. Dean had known this for months too. His gut burned from the whiskey and the truth of it all. Knowledge wasn't power. It was crippling and ruthless.

"We will only intercede if we must, and I fear by then it will already be too late."

"I don't know how I'm supposed to stop him. Man, the kicker is that I don't even know if I should." Dean's voice shook, and in looking up he found Castiel's visage was a warped mess behind the tears. "You guys are losing out there. And the thing is I'm not sure if Sam's completely wrong. His heart's in the right place."

"Unlike some of the others, I am beginning to appreciate the merit of that. I truly believe that Sam is doing what he thinks is right." Castiel looked puzzled by his own feelings. "But hearts can turn black, Dean. They cannot be relied upon. Sam's good heart _will not matter_ if it is consumed by darkness. Surely you yourself know how intentions can be corrupted beyond recognition. Evil is evil."

Dean buried his face in his hands. His heart couldn't be relied upon. This was all some horrible mistake.

"Sam's not evil," Dean said, not entirely sure if that was true anymore. And it was his fault, all of it. His voice was paper-thin. "He's my brother, Cas. I don't know what I'm supposed do."

The room fell silent. Dean could hear the ticking of his watch and the rustle of carpet as Castiel took several steps.

"Yes, Dean, you do," Castiel said at last, not unkind. "And I am sorry."

There was weight on the top of his head, a bare brush of fingers through his hair, just for a moment and then it disappeared. Dean thought the touch was meant to be comforting, but to him it felt like damnation. He pressed the heel of his hands into his eye sockets until he saw bright bursts on the backs of his eyelids, fending off a headache he didn't have. When he looked up, Castiel was gone and he was alone. Abandoned.

Dean stood. He was in no better shape now than before Castiel's visit, and again he had to wonder what good the angel was. All he did was issue ultimatums and warn about dire times ahead. He wasn't helpful. Dean still didn't know what to do about Sam. He walked to the head of his bed and sat with his back against the headboard. He decided all he could do was wait and see how Sam played this when he got back. He tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling.

All Dean could do was wait to see if his brother was the goddamned antichrist.

He must have dozed off, weary to the threadbare soul, because when he opened his eyes from a long blink Sam was walking through the door. Dean squinted at the clock. 2:45 AM. Then he squinted at Sam, noticed the telltale pinched look around his brother's eyes that meant a headache, and the way he shuffled as if in pain. He watched Sam cringe as he removed his jacket and tossed it right on top of his.

"Have a nice walk?" Dean asked, trying not to make it sound like the accusation it was.

"Yeah," Sam said quietly, heading for the bathroom. "I needed some air to clear my thoughts."

"How's Ruby?"

Sam halted at the threshold, his shoulders stiffening. He turned his head, but ended up looking at the doorframe and not Dean. He swallowed a couple times before he said, "Dean…"

Two points for honesty.


End file.
